


Samo Igra

by Pomiar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hunger Games, M/M, before the events in the books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomiar/pseuds/Pomiar
Summary: The first games Qui-Gon had witnessed through the eyes of a mentor had been horrifying, and it took no time at all for him to realize - this was their punishment, for crawling back alive from the hellhole!





	

Obi-Wan never slept in his own house, not even on  _ those  _ nights, when he could feel his skin burning underneath the unforgiving rays of a man-made sun.

On such occasions he’d storm out and away from the Victors’ Village. Later, Qui-Gon could usually find him nearby the small lake in the forest, that lay South of District 12 or helping Shmi Skywalker in her kitchen, listening to young Anakin babble about anything and everything.

Obi-Wan’s house stayed empty as that day in the beginning of Fall, when they both had returned to their District. Obi-Wan hadn't had many belongings to begin with, but when he had found all of them had been moved by invisible hands to the vast, empty shell of a house he had won along with his life in the Games, he had locked the door and thrown the keys in the tall grass behind Qui-Gon’s own house.

The older man hadn't said anything at the time, but several days later he had found the missing keys and hanged them near his backdoor, somewhere Obi-Wan would spot them almost immediately.

Several years of living together and Qui-Gon still couldn't quite understand why Obi-Wan just refused to use the main door of the house and would instead creep through the kitchen, like some thief in the small hours of the night, but like those first days - he never touched the keys.

 

As for their living accommodation - the older man didn't mind the presence of the other. In fact he was glad for it. After all, Qui-Gon’s own demons still had enough room to roam at night. They would just have to learn to share.

Sometimes, it wasn't the quiet click of the door to Obi-Wan’s room that woke him in the middle of the night, but the quiet hum of a gentle song.

Obi-Wan could sing. Oh, how he could sing!

On those nights Qui-Gon’s escape from the grips of yet another nightmare would be sitting cross legged on the floor next to the older man’s bed, singing gently of vast seas and lost lovers, songs he picked up from the traders at the market.

Obi-Wan had never tried to wake him by touching him, not after the first week they had lived together. Needless to say, Qui-Gon had reacted violently back then. 

Instead, Obi-Wan would offer topics for meaningless conversations, a glass of cool water, a brief smile and vehement refusal to accept any apologies.

 

Obi-Wan's nightmares were another thing altogether. They came and went silently, with no regards of whether it was day or night. Phantoms of burning children and laughing men. Qui-Gon could see them coming now, but only because he had taught himself to look out for the telltale signs - a shiver, a startled gulp of air, widened, frighten eyes. Obi-Wan would try to hide, find a quiet corner, where he could live out his moments on the arena all over again without anyone finding out.

Qui-Gon would find him though, gently rub his back as he carefully instructed the younger man to breathe, breathe not the suffocating desert air, but the cool, stale one of the room they were in.

 

Depa had taught Qui-Gon how to deal with such attacks. She had been there for him through his own - gently coaxing him to come back to her.

Qui-Gon often wondered who had been there for Depa.

 

District 12 rarely if ever welcomed back its tributes. When Qui-Gon had been relocated to the Victors’ Village, Depa Billaba had been its only resident. Depa had mentored him before the games and afterwards an easy, comfortable friendship had grown between them. Depa had continued to look after the district's tributes, trying to spare Qui-Gon as many games as she could.  _ He is still too young, look at the scrawny kid he can't train the meekest of dogs, let alone a winner!  _ She would scowl at Regan - District 12’s escort. And so Qui-Gon had had some time to heal and if not wholly, at least to put himself back in some semblance of a proper, functioning human being.

 

The first games Qui-Gon had witnessed through the eyes of a mentor had been horrifying, and it took no time at all for him to realize - this was their punishment, for crawling back alive from the hellhole! 

Lenard had been seventeen, but scared witless, in fact the fear had been enough and the teen had given in. Lenard had lost before the games had even began.

Qui-Gon had grieved, wounds he thought long healed opened anew, new ones were added over the old scars. He had returned back home and begged Lenard's family for forgiveness. The mother - short and frail - had hugged him tightly.  _ No one could blame you, child. You tried and that is all we could've asked from you! _ That is what she had whispered to him at the time, but she had been wrong -  _  he  _ was blaming himself.

Depa had taught him gardening that year, showed him how to weed and grow, how to gently coax fragile saplings from their slumber. Simple as gardening was, it helped Qui-Gon immensely.

And as the seasons passed by, his garden grew. Order swallowed the untamed chaos in his backyard. Life had a new rhythm now.

Qui-Gon’s determination to save as many children as he could only grew stronger and stronger with each passing summer. He would learn to fight, to survive, to cheat, to outsmart, to play and he’d pass it to every child he was to mentor. But it hadn’t been enough, it never had and all Qui-Gon was left with was the determination to be better than last year, to know more, to play the sponsors wisely, to blend in the society he despised, to speak and laugh as the citizens of Capitol - he would not give up as long as there was even the slightest of chance, Qui-Gon would desperately fight!

 

Seven years later Obi-Wan Kenobi had volunteered as a tribute in the place of young Anakin Skywalker and tilted the world on its axis. 

_ Anakin is eight _ the boy had whispered  _ I'm twice as old and my name is probably printed on half of all those sheets of paper and yet… I couldn't let him go!  _

_ Do you really want to throw your life away?  _ Qui-Gon had asked, as if it was just so very simple.

_ No one will miss me back there  _ was the quiet reply he got.

 

Obi-Wan Kenobi had been twelve, when his parents were killed in the uprising on a cold winter night. Hungry and desperate a small group had attempted to escape beyond the electrical fence. They had all been caught and executed, except for the youngest Kenobi child. And so Obi-Wan had lived the last four summers as a stray cat, roaming the black market and picking up scraps, the traders looking somewhat after him.

Shmi Skywalker a quiet, kind woman had offered the orphan boy shelter throughout the winters. Her own son growing attached to the market’s orphan. 

Obi-Wan was rich now, independant, free to have whatever he wanted. But he wanted nothing. Freedom had costed him too much.

Qui-Gon at least had his plants, something to grow and protect, the younger man had for a long time just drifted, like a ghost inhabiting the Victors’ Village - a warning.

Obi-Wan still gave a large sum of his own money to the traders on the black market and especially to the Skywalker's family, even though it was forbidden. The guards would punish him back when he did it openly, long angry scars still covering his back from all the whipping he’d received.That by itself was hardly enough to deter Obi-Wan Kenobi - he had kept on giving all of his fortune away. 

Until the guards had punished others for his  _ crime. _

 

Now Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon gave away most of their money carefully, extremely cautiously. Or they would buy things they did not need - trinkets, jewelry, toys they would later bring to the school, silk scarves for Depa, who would smile, a twinkle in her eyes. And books, so many books.In time, Obi-Wan had learned to find solace in their old, yellow pages and so whenever a merchant managed to find one, so far away from the Capitol, they knew young Kenobi would have interest in it, no matter the cost.

_ They are scamming you!  _ Qui-Gon had sighed once, shaking his head.

Obi-Wan had turned to him and grinned _. I know how to haggle, they could hardly trip someone who grew beneath their stalls, but I find myself not wanting to,  _ he had tucked the thin tome ever so gently closer to his chest. 

Qui-Gon knew all of that, he himself had allowed traders to charge him much more than needed for a handful of seeds or a new sapling, and as he had established through time - he could hardly deny Obi-Wan anything.

 

Contrary to all expectations Obi-Wan Kenobi, age sixteen had survived and won the 32nd Annual Hunger Games.Qui-Gon had been observing the boy’s progress throughout the game and even he had been surprised as the shot, proclaiming the end of the Games had been fired and Obi-Wan had stood thin and shaking, angry red blisters covering his skin, as they had lowered the platform and welcomed him back.

Obi-Wan had been too noble, too good for the Games and  _ they _ had known all along. In the end, no matter how much the boy had tried to protect the other children at the arena, how much he had sacrificed for them - the Gamemakers, the Capitol would not permit Obi-Wan to die a hero. No, they had done everything in their powers to keep him alive and all of his efforts - wasted. All of the citizen, Qui-Gon had been forced to watch the Games with, would agree how tragic the boy from District 12’s fate was, but how he should shine among the best and brightest, among them!

The more Obi-Wan had tried to help the rest, the more attention he had garnered and in the end, he had been too smart, too brave and cunning. Capitol had wanted him back and the Gamemasters had been more than happy to oblige. 

The worse was - Qui-Gon had desperately wanted him to win as well. Once the Games had started, he had let the small seed of hope - that he would bring someone back with him this time - spread its roots and grow, until it had been like a dream, welcoming the boy back.

 

The years had passed by and finally Depa could no longer join Qui-Gon and the Tributes on the trip to the Capitol. It was time Obi-Wan took over. He had been twenty-five at the time, still a little bit lost, hurt and grieving. They had no choice though.

After his first Games as a mentor, Obi-Wan had closed off and for a whole month Qui-Gon would barely see him through the days. The younger man would wander aimlessly in the forest, surrounding their District. There was a hole in the fence nearby the Victors’ houses, but since there were so few of them living there no one had bothered to patrol around the area in years and so it had been left unattended. That autumn, Obi-Wan had been sneaking through the fence everyday, nobody knowing exactly where he went. To his closest people it had been enough that he simply came back and Qui-Gon was content to give Obi-Wan some space. They both had needed it. 

A month after their return Obi-Wan had asked Qui-Gon to teach him everything he knew.

_ They _ had made Obi-Wan sing. Somehow,  _ they  _ had known of his talent and made him perform live at the show before the Games and later on, when they had been invited to private parties. Even years after his victory people would still remember and demand he sing for them like a trapped bird in a golden cage.

And he would sing, for these rich and spoiled guests at lavish parties would later sponsor the pitiful children from District 12 and if all it took was a song Obi-Wan would gladly obey.

He was beautiful - copper hair and light blue eyes, he enchanted everyone around him with his quick wit and easy smile. But only Qui-Gon knew how much it all costed the younger man. Obi-Wan never sang these songs back home. The gentle lullabies, he’d chase Qui-Gon’s nightmares with, the cheerful melodies Obi-Wan would entertain Anakin and his friends with, gave way to songs of victories and triumph, songs they both despised. 

 

They both could not tell when what had been growing between them changed. It had been a subtle, gradual process. Obi-Wan would now lie at the very edge of Qui-Gon’s bed after a tiring night, at the very edge of something Qui-Gon did not want to put a name on, in fear it would shatter. Obi-Wan would slowly reach and twine their fingers together, only then would he relax and fall asleep. Qui-Gon would watch the younger man sleep, squeezing gently the slender fingers, before he too would succumb to his dreams.

  
Obi-Wan was thirty-two when Rey, a child of no more than twelve took her place on the hastily built stage as District 12’s female tribute.

**Author's Note:**

> If I've made some mistakes regarding HG terminology, feel free to correct, I read the books long time ago and on my native language.  
> I don't have a beta except for my dogs, but I don't think they were really listening while I read them some of this fic.  
> If anyone wants to talk quiobi, please write to me on my tumblr: pomiar.tumblr.com


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